Maybe Someday, Love
by Everlasting Faerie Light
Summary: Despite the fact that he has fallen in love with Amelia F. Jones, Arthur Kirkland will not allow himself to let go of past grievances, no matter how much it tears him apart. -England X fem!America, multi-chaptered story -Story based off of the song "Love Song Requiem" by Trading Yesterday.


_Emily will find a better place to fall asleep_

_She belongs to fairytales that I can never be_

Sometimes I wonder what it would've been like if she stayed.

I understand that it is a far-fetched idea; after all, just look at her now… she's a bloody superpower, an idiotic, beautiful woman whose grasp reaches far beyond the heavens of her foolish dreams. I should've known that there was absolutely no possible way that I could have kept her by my side, not when she needed to spread those ever-growing wings of hers.

Amelia Felicity Jones.

The name, I must admit, is rather foreign to my lips. It is the name that she goes by, the name that she responds to, the _only _name that she will allow herself to recognize. The name is a symbol of her flourishing grace, her idealistic dreams, her infatuation with romantic heroism and freedom.

The name symbolizes the act of moving forward.

Sometimes, I cannot help but wonder if she even thinks about her real name… the name that I bestowed upon her all those years ago when I first took the young, blue-eyed, golden-haired angel into my arms.

The day was mild, with a low, steady breeze that swept through the vast stretch of floral-dotted meadow, creating ocean like-currents and ripples that rose and fell at a continuous pace. I remember standing under that sky… that bright, blue, cloudless sky. A sky that filled my chest with a strange, swirling sense of determination.

Under that sky, I took my then-baby sister into my arms and held her against my chest, whispering a sweet lullaby into her small ear… an ear that has heard nothing more than the rustling of trees, the flowing of the creek, the beat of a heart.

Emily Felicity Kirkland.

That was to be her name.

It is a tragic thing really, to think that that specific name is now a taboo. One utterance of the name would cause her shoulders to stiffen, her face to become stoic, her eyes to lose their luster…

Emily Felicity Kirkland is a dead woman, she would say. She had perished in that fateful year of 1776… the year that she had put her foot down, looked at me with dark, swirling eyes, and told me that she was no longer my younger sister, that she wanted absolutely nothing to do with me, that if she had to, she would lodge a bullet through my brain.

And yet, even though I address her as Amelia, I want so desperately to call her Emily. My Emily. My sweet, dear, beautiful Emily.

No matter how hard I have tried, I just cannot let it go. I feel like a grieving man, forever lamenting the loss of his dearly beloved.

Though time does heal even the worst of wounds, there is still that ache within the veins of my heart that weeps for my beautiful Emily. That lovely, sweet angel that is nothing more than an object of the past.

Emily Felicity Kirkland shall forever rest in her plethora of fairytales…fairytales that I can never be. There, in the peace and quiet of innocence, of incorruption, she shall forever sleep.

And yet, here I am, sitting in my study. The old, paned windows are cracked ever so slightly, the scent of freshly fallen rain tainting every heavy inhale and exhale. The room is bathed in a bright, ghostly golden light emitted from the ancient, flickering lamp, its inconsistent rays causing the deep, dark shadows to look even deeper and darker.

My hand clutches my pen, which hovers over a piece of yellowed parchment, the never-ending flow of words too excessive and painful for me to document on paper. I close my eyes for a moment and take another deep breath, the familiar scent of rain calming me.

Amelia is currently asleep in the guest bedroom two doors down… she had decided to pay me a visit (surely not out of the kindness of her heart, but rather the fact that she did not have enough money to pay for even the cheapest hotel room). The day had been fairly normal in terms of my interactions with the girl.

She laughed about the most ridiculous jokes, talked about absurd, undignified rubbish, and of course, used her finger to continuously prod my cheek as she spouted a plethora of highly unoriginal insults about my cooking abilities.

And, I, of course, reacted in a typical manner. A scolding, a scowl, my own fresh set of demeaning insults.

However, with each stolen glance, with each smile, each laugh… I tried to find my Emily there. I wanted to find that curly-haired angel of mine, that angel that has haunted my dreams for almost three centuries now.

And when I looked very closely, sometimes I would see her in that white-toothed grin, those twinkling blue eyes… those eyes that told me that I was someone she would follow to bloody hell and back.

And my heart breaks every time. Because I know that Emily is dead. This is wrong. And unfair. No, not on Amelia's part, but on mine. I have no right to wish for her to come back, not when the damn girl has worked so hard to push Emily Kirkland away so that she can make a name for herself.

Amelia Felicity Jones.

I bite my bottom lip and press the ball of the pen against the piece of parchment. The scratching of pen against paper echoes through the room, intertwining with the sound of the falling rain.

_Emily Felicity Kirkland:_

_Kind. Lovely. Loyal. Exquisite. Stunning…_

The list goes on and on. I can write a book of adjectives just to describe my love for my former younger sister. However, with a slight grumble, I force myself to stop, instead focusing on the next topic, my eyes narrowing in on the words as my hand continues to move.

_Amelia Felicity Jones: _

_Irritating. Loud. Rude. Obnoxious. Disgusting. Crude. No manners… _

And yet, I realize something… something that takes my breath away, causes my poor heart to crash repeatedly against my rib cage.

No.

How can I accept this?

My heart is Emily's. Only Emily's. To give my love to Amelia would be the ultimate betrayal, even if the two make up one person.

But, this is different.

Emily was my sister. I loved her with all my heart. I would do anything to protect her, to shield her from the horrors of the outside world… I would do anything to maintain that pure innocence, that loyalty, that fresh beauty that shined in the swing of her golden locks and smiling face.

Amelia… what is Amelia to me? She is not my sister. No, that much is clear. Is she my…friend? Acquaintance? Ally? However, I do know this much.

She is a woman of constant action. Despite her lack of grace, she possesses her own fervent charisma. Those shining blue eyes, once belonging to my sister, are aflame with determination. Those eyes have seen bloodshed, just as her hands have caused it. Her very tone of voice drips with sheer independence. If you look at her closely, you can see those giant wings spread, glinting in the rays of sunlight.

Amelia F. Jones has surpassed the heavens. She flourishes, and she knows it. She takes pride in the fact that she is, indeed, the United States of America. No longer a girl, but a woman. She is Lady Liberty, and the bloody girl keeps on walking forward, no matter how many people have try to hold her back.

And that's what scares me.

I think of today's smiles, glances, jokes… of all of the rubbish that came from her lips. So bright, so warm, so powerful. And I am spellbound. No, it is not because I think that I have seen my dear Emily in her every facial expression.

No, it is because Amelia, herself, is fascinating. She is…

I can't even begin to describe how bloody conflicted I am right now.

I think that I have fallen in love with Amelia Felicity Jones.

I think that I fell in love with her the moment that she pointed the gun straight at the spot between my eyes, and told me that she was no longer my little sister… that she would no longer be called "Emily Felicity Kirkland." I saw the transformation in her eyes, and I was completely swept off my bloody feet.

But I rejected it. I panicked. How could I fall in love with a woman who murdered my little sister right before my eyes? This…this woman who mocks me by looking exactly like Emily, but at the same time… so different?

And it took me until now to realize this.

However, I cannot deny that I love Amelia. And that's why I hate myself so much. I am nothing but a pathetic, washed-up, has-been with the shadow of a fallen empire beneath my thumb. I am wallowing in my own grief, forever mourning over what I used to have, and not allowing myself to embrace what I have now.

That is why she can never know. I will never, EVER tell Amelia how I feel. I just can't.

Because she was the one who put Emily to sleep forever. Never to be awoken again.

She murdered my precious, little sister without a single speck of mercy. I am a sick man; how can I allow myself to feel these emotions for this woman?

I look back down at the piece of parchment, my breath caught in my throat. The pen starts to move once again, a coarse sound against the ever-falling raindrops. The shadows cast by the dim lamp seem to bounce off of the paper at odd, rhythmic intervals.

_Amelia Felicity Jones: _

_Irritating. Loud. Rude. Obnoxious. Disgusting. Crude. No manners… _

_Breath-taking. Beautiful. Raw. Ambitious. Ruthless. _

_I fucking love the bloody hell out of her. _

I'm so sorry, Emily. But I just can't help it.


End file.
